Father's Day: Rock Dad Makes a Break for It
Father's Day. That sacred moment where dads across the land receive a pair of socks, a handmade card, and if they're lucky—five minutes of silence before someone throws Weetabix at the wall.
This year? I gave myself the ultimate dad gift: I escaped the country.
Not out of malice. Not even out of desperation. Just... necessity. The kind you feel in your spine when life's a bit too loud, a bit too heavy, and you haven't been to a gig in years because bedtime routines took over your identity.
So I did it. Booked a solo trip to Poland to see the Scorpions live.
Spoiler: I cried. I scootered. I lost my earbuds & battery pack. And somehow, I met Klaus Meine three times. Not even joking.
Table of Contents
Suitcase Sabotage and a Speedrun Through Security
Like all good dad-led adventures, it started late. Forty minutes late, to be precise—because obviously I decided to get all the kids sorted before dealing with myself. Chaos was had. Lists were ignored. The final bag was zipped seconds before sprinting out the door.
I did, at one point, consider taking the coach to Stansted aiport. As Flibco recently launched new direct routes between London and Stansted, leaving every 30 minutes from Liverpool Street Station. Open tickets, online discounts, decent journey time—sounded ideal, in theory.
But I knew my ADHD brain wouldn't make it to the train station on time without a full security escort and a cattle prod. So instead, I booked parking right next to the airport like the chaos goblin I am. Maybe next time I'll be a responsible adult.
Rock up at the airport, thinking I'll cruise into the lounge like a low-budget rockstar... only to realise I've brought a bloody suitcase instead of hand luggage, this was one running dad joke already...
Cue the dreaded U-turn through security. If I hadn't bought Fast Track, I'd have been singing "Winds of Change" from the airport floor while my plane took off without me.
Also spent twenty delightful minutes at the bureau de change because apparently nobody could decide if my money had left my account or vanished into the void.
Finally made it into the lounge. My grand plan of sipping something cold while reading in peace? Out the window. I managed:
- One lukewarm pie
- Two Pepsi Max
- One emergency beer
- One emotional phone call
- A light jog to the gate, pie crumbs trailing in my wake
Gdańsk Arrival: Holiday Mode Activated
Stansted to Gdańsk was smooth. Too smooth. I started worrying something was about to go wrong.
And it did. Sort of.
My Uber driver and I had a fantastic natter, he was from Ukraine and had lived in Romania. His English was rusty, so we jostled between Romanian and Italian, talked poker and life... got to my hotel and after walking out I got a ding on my phone, the cheeky begger claimed I hadn't paid him—even though I'd tipped.
Uber refunded the whole thing, which felt like a rare karmic win. I checked into the Sheraton Sopot Hotel in Sopot, dropped my bags, and allowed myself to feel something I hadn't felt in a long time: still.
That didn't last.
First Night in Sopot: Kebab, Kindness, and Crashing Out
After the airport chaos and the Uber debacle, I wasn't expecting much from the first night. But Poland had other plans.
Wandered out looking for food and got chatting to two lovely Polish lads—both about 15 years younger than me, but we bonded instantly over music, life, and (most importantly) where to get the best kebab in town.
They led me to a hidden gem, the sort of place you'd sell your soul to visit again. I'm not exaggerating when I say: the best kebab I've ever had.
We parted ways, I wandered back to the Sheraton like some nearly 40-year-old vagabond and passed the infamous Krzywy Domek (or Crooked House). I wasn't drunk but my goodness, one look at that building and I felt off my face.
As I stumbled into my hotel suite, I ate like a rabid wolf—this kebab was crispy on the outside, spicy on the inside, and somehow healing to the soul and crashed out hard after a long call to the wife.
No regrets. Just garlic sauce and jalapenos.
Morning After: Scootering, Bird-Rescuing, and Spa Life
Woke up feeling more human than I had in months.
Started the day with an unreal Polish breakfast buffet—a smorgasbord of local delicacies, cured meats, crusty bread, bacon and eggs, fresh cheeses, and raspberry smoothies for breakfast because why not?
I wanted to sunbathe, but the weather had other plans. So I decided to sign-up to Bolt and thus began my love affair with e-scooters.
I spent over two hours gliding along the coastline and through Sopot, gathering footage (that my phone later refused to save—cheers tech gods), stopping every so often to breathe in the Baltic and pretend I was in a European music video.
I ended up back at the hotel and decided to make the most of the spa. Went for a swim to wash off whatever metaphorical weight I was carrying. It helped. Not in a life's fixed kind of way, but in a this is nice and my back doesn't hurt for once kind of way.
And somewhere between swimming and suiting up for the night ahead, a bird broke into the hotel lounge. Like, full flappy panic mode. I helped get it out with a hotel staff member while wearing nothing but my best metal attire and a huge grin on my face.
I like to think it was symbolic.
Freedom. Rescue. A small chaotic soul just looking for a way out.
Same little bird. Same.
Then... Klaus
Showered. Suited. Booted.
Looking sharp, feeling sharper.
Walked through the hotel lobby and there he was.
Klaus. Bloody. Meine.
I froze. He smiled. I asked for a photo like a starstruck child and of course... after taking the snap I rushed to tell the world the good news.
No photo.
Still. He was kind. Polite. Gentle energy. He was exactly the version of Klaus I needed in that moment—gracious and grounded. I walked away thinking, "Okay. Even if the gig's a letdown, this moment was worth the flight."
Spoiler: the gig was not a letdown.
The Gig: VIP Feels, A-Team Sound, and Unexpected Tears
I rolled into the arena feeling like a man finally clocking back into himself.
Was I mildly nervous the venue would sound like a Tesco warehouse during a rainstorm? Yes.
Did it? Absolutely not.
The sound was perfect. No echo, no distortion—just clean, thunderous rock engineered by people who clearly knew this wasn't their first rodeo. Whoever was on the desk that night deserves a beer and a back rub.
I parked myself in my VIP seat, ready to headbang politely like a well-adjusted adult. But somewhere between the intro riff and the second chorus, something shifted. Everyone was in their element. There I am surrounded by my Polish peers (granted most of them were about a decade older, but still!)
I relished every moment, every raptuous applause, every crunchy riff that I remember from my childhood and then...
They played "Still Loving You" and "Send Me an Angel", and I just... cried. No hiding it. Just me, an arena full of strangers, and a cathartic musical gut-punch to the soul.
This wasn't just a gig. It was a moment of release I didn't know I needed.
Scooter Vibes and Strawberry Moons
Gig over, heart full, face slightly damp—I stepped outside and hobbled to my scooter... but not before limping back to the venue to try and find the battery pack I'd left on my seat (which wasn't there but such is ADHD life!)
Rocked up to the hotel after recording a few short videos for the fam on the return e-scooter journey home and in true karmic fashion I walked through the hotel lobby and bam, there he was.
Klaus Meine. The voice. The hat. The legend.
This time, the photo saved. The universe giveth. Eventually.
Full of glee I got out of my AWFUL leather boots, and popped my crocs back on. I ran to the bar for a pepsi and peanuts nightcap and to tell the world the ACTUAL good news this time.
After undwinding (read—de-stim from emotional overload) for a few moments I decided to retire to the hotel bar where Mickey Dee and a few other gig revellers were having a nightcap. Beer in Poland comes in 333ml or 500ml, so decision paralysis kicked in and I decided to have both!
After an hour sipping my beverages, I hobbled to Europe's longest wooden pier, where the night sky greeted me with a strawberry moon so massive and surreal, I briefly considered writing some poetry, with the Scoprions in mind.
Bad boys run wild
when your fire stops burning
When your truth stops apologising,
and your eyes stop asking to be seen.Men meet you under strawberry moons
on borrowed scooters and broken dreams,
with one hand on their regret
and the other open for something new.They don't fix you.
They don't fear you.
They sit beside your storm
and say, "Let's build something from this."They see your rubble
and call it foundation.
They see your scars
and call them maps.So send me an angel.
Not to rescue me.
Not to carry me.
Just to stand beside me,
quiet,
while I become the thing I was praying for all along.
The Dad
But I've always been more of a guitarist, so I just stared at the strawberry moon and muttered "Bloody hell" under my breath as the winds nearly whipped my phone out of my hand.
1am Kebabs and Motörhead in a Bar
Walked back into town for a kebab nightcap because obviously.
Then I passed a bar (Three Sisters) blasting Metallica at 1am, and something in my bones said "Yes." Went inside, ordered a drink, and ended up catching a snap with Mickey Dee from formed Motörhead acclaim (obviously drumming for The Scorpions now).
I don't know what alignment of stars or chaotic energy summoned that moment, but there I was—talking rock, taking photos, and drinking with an actual legend.
It was the kind of moment you don't plan. You just fall into it, like losing a flip-flop on the beach and finding a buried treasure chest instead.
2:30am Chats and Emotional Jet Lag
Wobbled back to the hotel somewhere around 2:30am.
Still wired, I stayed up chatting to my wife until 4am—not an ideal emotional cocktail after several Pepsi Max and a few beers, but sometimes you just need to talk. And sometimes the talking just confirms how up and down everything is.
But still. The night had been magic. And weirdly healing. Even if everything waiting back home was wonderful in the kind of way that makes you question your life choices, this night had been mine.
The Morning After: Breakfast, Motorcades, and Travel Mistakes
Woke up groggy but content.
Made my way to the breakfast buffet like a semi-hungover Viking: hungry, dazed, still somewhat fragile from the night before.
The sun had finally come out and I was determined to make the most of the opportunity to sunbathe... but not before grabbing some breakfast!
And what a breakfast it was.
The buffet at the Sopot was the thing of dreams and because I'd donned my shirt for breakfast, there was apparently table service. Even the birds came out to say good morning.
I took myself to the beach and started snapping pictures like they were going out of fashion.
I started recording a video for the post and Instagram (all of which are entirely completely useless because all you can hear is the wind), and promptly fell into a hole I had dug not 1 minute prior!
Then dipped my toes into the Baltic sea.
After popping out for some light tat shopping and last-minute sight-seeing, I searched for a flight to Krakow. Thankfully there was one, and it was cheaper than the train. I was about to hit the checkout button, when I had a moment of ADHD clarity... hold on a minute I thought. It's Tuesday not Thursday... shit this flight is for next month.
So I threw everything into my bag, ran to check out, and as I stood in the lobby muttering obscenities at myself, the entire Scorpions entourage rolled out in a motorcade.
Just casually. Like it was a school run and they were all late for guitar lessons. Grabbed my chance to say hi to all of them and left giddy and temporarily forgetting that I hadn't booked my onwards journey or hotel...
Thankfully there was one First Class seat left on the Gdansk to Warsaw Pendolino and I booked it and bolted to the train station.
Kraków: The Night Everything Caught Up
By the time I got to Kraków, I was spent.
Six hours on a train, trying to catch up on work while deep in emotional negotiations over text—you know the ones. The ones where your phone battery, patience, and will to live all drain at the same rate. (Thankfully the train had a charge port in my seat, but still...)
I hadn't even booked a hotel.
I walked through the glorious city centre, heading instinctively to the Marriott—looked fancy, but something about the place next door caught my eye.
It was cheaper. Quieter. Looked stunning.
I don't know if it was the lighting or the fact I couldn't face any more decisions, but I turned and walked in.
For just £160 a night I booked into the Bachleda Luxury Hotel Kraków - MGallery Collection.
And I'm glad I did.
Checked in with that hollow kind of exhaustion only certain dads and old touring musicians understand.
No plans. No expectations. Just a bar. Sat down. Ordered a beer and peanuts.
Then jumped onto another e-scooter (why they were cheaper in Krakow vs Sopot I don't know but went for a tour and found the "Propaganda Pub").
Spoke my sorrows to the barman and scooted to the supermarket to pick up Crisps, Meat and CHOCOLATE. Ate like a man who hadn't felt hunger in 48 hours, and then… just fell asleep. Not in the bar, thankfully—but emotionally, spiritually, completely.
The Morning After: Crème Brûlée, Pickled Gherkins & Schenker No. 1
Woke up groggy but grateful. And hungry.
Headed to breakfast, once again faced with a buffet that was part holiday, part spiritual event. Fresh-baked bread, meats, pastries—and a weird but strangely perfect combo of crème brûlée and pickled gherkin that I will defend to the grave.
Then I heard it.
Someone nearby, speaking in German.
I turned around and nearly choked on my sparkling water.
Rudolf Schenker.
Just casually enjoying breakfast, like this was a completely normal thing to happen after a breakdown and a bucket of bread.
The Lift: Schenker No. 2 and One Dad to Another
After breakfast, I went up to my room to call home.
Lift doors opened on my way down and in stepped Michael Schenker. Of course.
In true ADHD fashion, I immediately over-shared. After gushing and telling him how long I've waited to see The Scorpions (since I was 12), then told him I wouldn't make that night's gig. Explained that I'm trying to book a flight home early to try and figure things out with the wife.
Didn't even let him blink before blurting it out.
He looked at me—quiet, thoughtful—and said:
"Family comes first, I understand"
Simple. No fluff.
But in that moment, it meant everything.
Another emotional chat. Not bad, not good—just honest.
The Spa, the Sparkling Water, and the Finger
Still trying to ground myself, I headed to the hotel spa to try and detox the weight of everything going on in my life.
Back to the hotel room, and popped down to the veranda to down another sparkling water. I ended up using my phone to have a chat with a gent who was in the country for work and somehow left my earbuds on the table or floor... (RIP Samsung Pro Buds).
Went back to my hotel to grab my sketchbook and just contemplate what to do with the rest of the day before returning to the veranda.
Had my third sparkling water of the day (because I'm wild like that), and for the first time all trip… I just zoned out.
Took a deep inhale. Let it out slowly.
Thought: Maybe I'll be alright. Maybe this was exactly what I needed.
I wondered around Krarkow taking in the sights but really wasn't feeling it. Things didn't feel right. Little did I know...
I returned to the hotel and dumped my things wondering whether to attempt to salvage the day. Sat down for another fizzy water, and then…
The Scorpions tour manager appeared from the main entrance.
No hello. No small talk. Just this:
"No pictures or videos, you followed us. It's not right."
I laughed—genuinely thinking he was joking.
He wasn't.
He flipped me off, muttered a few choice words, and walked away.
I walked in after him to say my piece and confront whether or not he was actually joking and was met with another German middle finger...
Apparently, having multiple accidental run-ins with the band meant I was a stalker now. Never mind the fact that I'd had two full-on breakdowns in between and hadn't taken a single usable video.
Homebound: When the Signs Are Loud and Clear
That was the final nudge I didn't know I needed.
I opened Viagogo, listed my ticket 20 minutes before doors, and booked a flight home that evening.
Landed in Stansted around midnight.
Stumbled through my front door at 4am.
And everything since?
Let's just say wonderful and leave it at that.
Would I Do It Again?
In a fucking heartbeat.
Because sometimes you need to lose your earbuds, scooter through moonlight, cry in a VIP seat, eat crème brûlée for breakfast, and get flipped off by a tour manager… just to remember you're still a person underneath the parenting and pain.
Was it the trip I planned?
Not even close.
I had it all mapped out—shooting ranges, go-karting, maybe even a visit to Auschwitz to properly take in the weight of history. But life doesn't always let you stick to the itinerary. Especially when you're trying to juggle family, feelings, and fragments of yourself you forgot were even there.
But you know what?
I still got to:
- Dip my toes in the Baltic
- Catch a few rays between the emotional storms
- Sleep less than I do at home (ironically)
- And spend four chaotic, beautiful days just being me again
For someone who's only ever played Bloodstock and a few sweaty club gigs, this felt like a headline tour. For four days, I wasn't just a dad in damage control.
Was it therapy? Not quite.
Was it healing? In its own ridiculous, chaotic way… yeah.
It was.
Sometimes you need to break the illusion to see your reality and I'm thankful for that.
And as for me... well I can say that Poland—and the Scorpions—gave me a glimpse of hope in a moment of darkness.
Ever taken a trip that hit harder than expected?
Whether you're a dad in damage control or just a human in freefall, I'd love to hear about it. Drop a comment or come cry over kebabs with me on Instagram: @ukdadblog
